


You Make Me Blush

by Temporaryism



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas, Crack, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:27:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temporaryism/pseuds/Temporaryism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I don't speak French and I'm not British. If any of that was apparent, I'm sorry.</p>
<p>Anyway. I hope you liked it! :D</p>
<p>
  <a href="http://angels-are-mischiefs.tumblr.com/">My tumblr</a>
</p></blockquote>





	You Make Me Blush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carpemomento](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemomento/gifts).



Learning a second language is really fucking hard. 

And stupid cute French boys with adorable French accents make it even worse.

Honestly, at this point, Harry is just embarrassed for himself. It’s the beginning of November for fuck’s sake. He should be able to understand more than _bonjour_ and _oui_. But no, apparently he cannot. Because when a certain little TA for Harry’s French 101 class opens his mouth, the words don’t register. Harry looks straight at Louis (whose name is pronounced Lou-ie, not Lewis, like the cute little French shit he is), but doesn’t hear a word he says. 

It’s his mouth, Harry thinks. How can anyone look at that and focus on anything else? It’s not possible. He’s amazed anyone is passing this class, really.

And that’s how Harry ends up at the front of the classroom making an utter fool of himself. They’re supposed to be playing a game. If Harry understands correctly (which he’s not sure he does), it’s a bit like “I spy”—but in French. It shouldn’t be this fucking difficult.

But Harry had been looking at Louis when he was supposed to be scanning the room for whatever it was that Louis had spotted, because Harry did not register what Louis said. At all.

Louis raises his eyebrows at Harry, clearly concerned that Harry isn’t participating in the game.  
“ _Pardon_ , uhh… _Je ne_ —. Um. What did you say again?”

Louis laughs a little at Harry’s response. Harry blushes furiously. He’s aware that his competitor and every other classmate is probably looking over at him and laughing silently too. Harry’s face heats up even more.

Louis reaches up to nudge his glasses and says, “ _lunettes_ ,” in his perfect little French accent. Harry takes a moment to revel in the beauty that is Louis in glasses before he realizes that Louis is smiling at Harry awkwardly. _Oh, right. The game. Shit_. Harry snaps his attention forward to face the class and figure out which students are wearing glasses. His competitor, Eleanor, is already pointing to the only other student in the room who happens to be wearing glasses. She asks in a well-developed ( _but still not perfect_ , Harry thinks bitterly) French accent if that’s who Louis was thinking of. 

Louis smiles brightly and nods. “ _Oui. C’est vrai_!” Louis indicates for Eleanor to stay up at the front for the next round and for Harry to take his seat. 

Feeling like an idiot, Harry fumbles toward his desk, trips on the strap of someone’s rucksack, and unceremoniously falls into his chair. Groaning inwardly, Harry lays his head down on his desk rather than watching the rest of the game. He peeks to see that no one is watching and thunks his head against the desk a few times. 

\----------------------------------------

Louis watches Harry curiously as the class packs up to leave. The boy seems mortified by his loss in the game from earlier and Louis sympathizes with him. Really he does. He can’t really remember not knowing French that well, though there was a time that he did, so he feels for the boy. Louis would really like to go to him and tell him he’s not doing any worse than anyone else; in fact, Harry does just fine for his first semester of French. But it seems that whenever Louis tries to speak to Harry, the boy freezes up and only nods silently until Louis gives up and walks away. He’s just not sure what to do about it anymore.

Harry is finally walking past Louis to exit the classroom, and Louis watches, hoping to catch his eye and offer a smile of encouragement. Harry doesn’t even look his way. _Oh well. There’s always tomorrow_.

French 101 is the last class Louis attends every day, so he heads home and prays that if Zayn has Liam over, they’re at least dressed. His prayers are answered—for once—as Louis finds Zayn and Liam in their small apartment’s kitchen with all of their clothes on. 

“Zayn! Liam! I’m so happy to see you both here and not doing the dirty on my clean kitchen counter.” Louis smiles and ruffles Liam’s hair. Liam, who still hasn’t quite gotten used to Louis (even though he’s been dating Zayn for two months now and has been coming around ever since last winter semester), chuckles awkwardly and coughs. Zayn just gives Louis an icy glare. 

“You just missed it, actually.”

Louis frowns. “Disgusting. You’re buying me dinner tonight. I’m not eating here til it’s been drowned in bleach.”  
“No way, Lou,” Zayn says at the same time Liam blurts out “I’m sorry! We were really careful, I promise!”

“ _Tu rigoles_? _Merde_!” Louis shouts. Liam jumps. Zayn looks bored. “Really, Zayn? Really? In my kitchen? I thought you were joking!”

“Chill out. It’s not like we ever actually make anything here anyway,” Zayn shrugs.

“That’s not the point. I _eat_ here, Zayn. I don’t want to be unknowingly ingesting your sperm. Sick.” Louis shudders. “You fucking owe me, dick.”

Zayn does nothing to apologize for his behavior. Instead he grabs a shocked Liam by the belt and drags him toward his bedroom. “C’mon, Li. I think I’m in the mood for seconds.”

The sex-crazed fucker. Gross. 

\----------------------------------------

Harry has been in love with his French 101 TA ever since he listened to Louis explain how he was born British, but lived in France since he was ten years old. Niall knows this. He knows every fucking thing he ever wanted (or didn’t want) to know about Louis Tomlinson. Because Harry never shuts up about the boy. 

And Niall figures that Harry will probably never see Louis again after this class is over. He’ll be forced to move on and obsess over someone else. So Niall is trying to be patient. He really is. But Harry’s embarrassing story of what happened in class today is devolving into Harry gushing about how blue Louis’s eyes are and how absolutely lovely he looks in glasses.

Niall is gagging on Harry’s obsessive affection. He’s drowning in it. It’s horrendous, and he’s not sure either of them will make it out of this semester alive if it keeps going on like this.

Since changing topics doesn’t seem to work—because in Harry’s mind, everything relates back to Louis—Niall decides to drown Harry out. He plugs in his guitar and turns the amp up as loud as he can in order to cover the noise of Harry’s lovesick ramblings, but not piss off the guys in the dorm next to theirs. It’s not really that loud, but it works.

\----------------------------------------

Harry keeps to himself for the next week or so in French class, so nothing too embarrassing happens. But as with every other foreign language course, there are always activities which require him to talk. And on Wednesday, Harry finds himself sitting across from Cara in a mock interview that’s supposed to be conducted in French. He can do this.

The confidence only lasts until Cara opens up their textbook to the page with the activity outlined on it and starts giggling. “What?” Harry asks, almost worried to find out.

Cara smiles at Harry sweetly and pulls her book away. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I want to ask the questions first, okay?”

“Umm, okay,” Harry says slowly, suspiciously. Giggling girls are never a good sign.

His partner can’t seem to contain her smile as she looks down at the book to figure out the first question. As they go through the list of questions, Harry soon finds out that there is a theme here. Apparently asking about someone’s first kiss and first crush are nothing too personal for a university French class. Harry is already stumbling through his answers when he notices that Louis is on his way over to check on him and Cara. Fuck.

“Uhh, umm. What did you ask again?” Harry asks Cara with a panicked expression. Cara looks down at the book again before repeating the question, and by now Louis has pretty much arrived at their table. The question is asking for the name of his first date. Great. Lovely, really. 

Louis listens intently for Harry’s answer with a serene smile on his face, like he’s not about to glean some highly personal information about Harry’s life. Shit. Harry thinks he should just make up a name, but he can’t and fuck shit crap why is this his life?

“Uhm, _il s’appelle_ —”

“ _Elle s’appelle_ , Harry,” Louis interjects quietly, trying to help Harry along. Harry can already feel his ears burning. “‘ _il_ ’ is the masculine form.”

Fuck. Harry coughs into his hand awkwardly, trying to cover up his blush. “I—uh, I know. Um. I meant ‘ _il_ ’.”  
Harry tries, and fails, not to look up at Louis. The TA’s eyebrows have shot so far up that they’re lost in his messy fringe, his mouth open a little in shock. He quickly recovers though. “Oh?” he asks, suddenly much more interested and amused than before. Harry nods. He thinks his face might remain tomato red forever after this. “Well, then. Sorry for interrupting. Please continue,” Louis says, eyes alight with amusement.

Fuck. _He’s laughing at me_. 

“ _Il_ —,” Harry squeaks out in a high pitched tone. Embarrassed even further, Harry has a minor coughing fit in order to recover. He chances a glance at Louis, who is literally fighting back his laughter and failing miserably to do so. Shit. Fuckityfuckfuckfuck. Harry’s never been more embarrassed. “ _Il s’appelle_ Nick,” Harry rushes to say in his deepest voice. He’s staring down at the desk, refusing to look at Louis ever again.

“Great job, Harry. _Bien_. And you, too Cara. Keep it up.” Harry feels fingers ruffling his hair, and he snaps his head up immediately. The hand is gone though and Louis is walking away to observe another group. Did Louis really just _fondle his hair_? Harry thinks he might die. 

Instead of freaking out, though, Harry manages to remain calm. “Could I ask the questions now, please?” He asks Cara. She pushes the book toward him, looking decidedly less amused and giggly than she had been before. Harry takes the book without question. He likes it better this way anyway.

\----------------------------------------

Louis can’t help it. To be truthful, he always had a bit of a soft spot for the curly-haired freshman in the French 101 course that Louis assists in. Harry is lovely to look at. He’s only eighteen (which means barely legal, honestly) but he has smooth, white skin and chocolatey curls and if Louis wrote poetry he’s sure the boy would inspire a few too many sappy sonnets from Louis. As it were, Louis can’t write poetry to save his life, and it’s probably better that he can’t anyway. It’s no use falling head over heels for young, straight boys who get a lot of attention from girls.  
Still, as Harry bumbles through French, Louis keeps a fond eye on him. Just to see that he does well. But today was different. It was not only eye-opening, but highly amusing as well. Louis never imagined that a few innocent questions about first kisses and first crushes would lead to his favorite student coming out to him. It was possibly the most endearing thing he’d ever seen. 

So he really can’t be blamed for chuckling a bit at Harry’s fumbled answer and fluffing the boy’s hair affectionately afterward. Anyone with a heart would have done the same.

\----------------------------------------

Niall and Harry are sitting at a cafe just off campus, and despite Niall’s decision to bring along his roommate, he is actually enjoying his breakfast in peace. Because Harry is doing his French homework. If there’s anything that can shut Harry up about his TA, it’s working on coursework. Niall is pleased as punch about it, actually. So he hums quietly to himself as he eats, happy and minding his own business.

Of course, that’s exactly when Harry says “shit” and “hide me, Niall.” Niall doesn’t even have the chance to respond when he feels something large and uncoordinated crowding his leg space. Niall tears himself away from his breakfast with a whimper to see just what is going on.

Harry is crouched under the table like a three year old with wide eyes and curls askew. “What’s up with you, mate?”

“Louis is here!” he whispers dramatically.

“Wha—oh, fer cryin out loud.” Niall kicks at Harry (maybe not so) gently until Harry is forced to slide back up into his seat.

“What’d you do that for?” 

“You’re being ridiculous. I’d like to enjoy my food without you clinging to my legs, thanks.”

Harry lets out a high-pitched whine. Niall cringes. “Niall, he’s gonna see me. This is bad. This is very, very bad. He can’t see me outside of class. This is terrible. Oh my gosh. Wait,” Harry suddenly grabs Niall’s arm. The bit of French toast that was clinging to his fork is now resting on the table. Niall glares at Harry, but he’s not paying attention. “Who is with him? Oh no, what if that’s his boyfriend? He’s so beautiful. How do I compete with that? Fuck. My life is over!” Harry wails and flops down on top of his textbooks.

“Do you even know if he’s gay, Harry?”

Harry doesn’t answer, only sobs a little.

“Well uh, don’t look now, but your dream boat is coming this way.” Harry had drawn a few gazes with his dramatics, and the one that Niall assumes is Louis (he matches all of Harry’s descriptions—feathery hair the color of caramel, golden tanned skin, etc. etc.) is now on his way over to investigate. 

Harry seems to accept his fate at this point, though his face looks pained. He is not-so-subtly trying to sneak a glance at Louis, and when he manages, his head snaps back over to face Niall. “Nononononono. I can’t do this.” The boy looks literally on the verge of a panic attack. So Niall does what any good friend would do.

He bitch slaps him.

“Get it the fuck together, mate.”

Harry finally stops, looking shocked. He stares at Niall bemused, lightly rubbing over his now red cheek. “Why would you do that?”

“Umm, am I interrupting something?”

Louis is standing right beside their table, looking unsure about the situation. Maybe the slap was a bit much.  
“No, you’re not interrupting anything,” Harry is quick to say, feigning nonchalance.

Maybe the slap was necessary.

Louis smiles anyway. “Well, I just thought I’d come say hi. So. Hi.” Louis does this little wave. Niall can tell Harry is endeared by it.

“Hi.” Harry swallows thickly. His gaze never wavers from Louis’s face.

Louis keeps smiling, though he does cough awkwardly after a few seconds. “So, um. Who’s your friend, Harry?”

“Oh! Um, right. Niall. This is my Niall. I mean—my roommate, Niall. Umm, yeah. Niall, this is Louis, my TA for French.”

“Nice t’meet ya,” Niall says, sticking his hand out for Louis to shake. 

“You too,” he says, looking more relaxed now. Probably because at least one person at this table isn’t a stuttering idiot. “So Harry, whatcha working on there?”

Harry looks in horror as Louis reaches for Harry’s French homework. _What if there are wrong answers on there? Or doodles of Louis naked?_ Harry slaps his hand down on the piece of paper that Louis had been pulling toward himself. Louis raises his eyebrows at Harry.

“It’s um. Just homework, you know.”

“Well I figured. For what class? I see you have your French textbook out.”

Shit. “Yeah. It’s French.”

“Oh! Well, glad to see you working so hard. I never see you in the TA lab. Do you need any help? You know, studying techniques or a point in the right direction?”

Harry almost dies. “No,” he grunts out. “I’m good, but thanks.”

“Oh,” Louis says. Harry tries not to think he looks disappointed. It’s just his imagination. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Absolutely. But thanks for the offer.” Harry tries to smile reassuringly. It might look a little manic though. He’s not sure.

“Okay, well. Anyway, best be off. It was nice seeing you, Harry. And meeting you, Niall.” Louis salutes them both and leaves, heading back to his waiting friend.

When Louis is a safe distance away, Niall slaps Harry again.

“OW! Fuck, Niall. What?”

“You idiot. You’re supposed to say ‘yes, tutor me Louis’, not kick him to the curb, you twat.”

“No, I can’t do that!”

“Why the hell not? He was practically begging to spend time with you. What were you thinking?”

“I can’t concentrate when he’s around. I’d look stupid. It’s like whenever he talks my mind breaks. It would be awful.”

Niall sighs and shakes his head. “I can’t believe people think you’re such a lady killer, Styles. One look from a cute French boy and you’re a stumbling, blubbering mess.”

Harry blushes. “You’re not allowed to think he’s cute.”

“What?”

“You’re straight. And he’s mine.”

“Oh my god.”

“Just back off, Niall.”

Niall takes his last piece of French toast and slaps it onto Harry’s face. Harry sputters and tries to peel it off.

“Come find me when you’ve become a rational human being again.” Niall walks away without leaving any money behind for the bill, even though he’s the only one who ate anything. He doesn’t care. Harry deserves this. All of it.  
Niall looks back when he reaches the door, just in time to watch Harry finally manage to remove the sticky slab of bread from his face. And promptly drop it on his French homework. He panics, his eyes going wide and his hands fluttering. Maybe Niall should help.

He laughs instead as he walks out into the crisp air.

\----------------------------------------

“It just isn’t fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“The snow. It’s only the first week in December. It could wait a little.”

“I would have thought you were the type of person who loves snow. I mean, you’re always so happy about everything.”

“I do love snow. I think it’s just a bit early, is all.”

“It’s December, Harry.”

“But it’s only the first week of December. It’s just trying to hurry everything along. I don’t like it.”

“Why not? You don’t want to be done with this semester already? You know, break? Christmas? Home? None of that sounds appealing?”

Harry shrugs. “I just like this semester. I don’t want it to be over.”

Perrie smiles and ruffles Harry’s mass of curls. “Cheer up, bud. I’m sure it’ll be good next semester, too.”

Harry smiles at that, even though he’s not so sure. He doesn’t like to think about why he doesn’t want this semester to be over. It makes him feel a little pathetic. Ever since it started snowing on Monday, Harry started reminding himself that it’s just a crush. Next semester he’s sure there’ll be someone else he’s interested in. The thought fills him with dread.

Perrie nudges Harry’s side to get his attention. She’s the only girl in Harry’s French 101 class that Harry doesn’t mind. Harry thinks the reason is that he’s fairly sure she’s figured out he’s gay. She doesn’t bat her eyelashes or giggle too much because of that. Harry’s grateful. He doesn’t mind paying attention to her.

Speaking of, she nudges him again. Harder this time. “Ow, what?”

“Looks like someone’s got a crush.” Harry is mortified, thinking she’s figured it out. He’ll never be able to look at Louis again without her giving him a hard time. But then he looks in the direction that her finger is pointing.

She is pointing to Louis—who sits in a tall chair off to the side of the Professor (Harry thinks it’s cute to watch Louis’s feet dangle)—but it’s not Harry’s crush she’s talking about. Eleanor is right in front of Louis, and the two of them are laughing together about something somebody said. Watching them makes Harry’s ears burn and his skin itch. They look so intimate, it’s making him cringe.

“Oh fuck. I didn’t even think he swung that way.” Perrie lets out a snort of laughter, and Harry realizes that he said that out loud. Shit. He’s not even sure how loudly he said that. He slaps a hand over his mouth and turns to Perrie, eyes wide. His face is probably the loveliest shade of scarlet right now.

Perrie is trying to stifle her laughter too, but she’s nodding her head in agreement and Harry starts to laugh. He can’t help it. 

Of course their laughter draws the attention of a few people in the room, including Louis. He’s looking straight at Harry, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. When Harry catches his eye, Harry pulls his lips in to try to hide his smile and scratches at his neck, willing his face to stop heating up.

Louis smiles at Harry for who-knows-why, and then of all things, he winks at Harry. Harry thinks he might die. His face is flushing again. Giving up entirely, Harry hides his face behind his hands.

“Perrie,” he groans, “shoot me now.”

He feels a tug on his hair, but otherwise she doesn’t respond. She’s still laughing. 

At that point, the professor calls the class to attention. Harry unhides his face to see that the professor is now standing at the front of the room, starting the lecture. Louis is still sitting off to the side, just observing silently, but Eleanor has found her seat. Harry breathes a sigh of relief and he can feel the heat leaving his face. 

By the end of class, Harry’s emotions have calmed down and he feels like a normal human being again. He starts to pack up his French textbook, feeling a little sad that Louis didn’t do much with the class today. 

“Hey, Harry,” Perrie says, nudging his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“There’s a Christmas party my friend is having this weekend. You should come.”

“Oh . . .” Harry isn’t sure how to respond. A party sounds great (he’ll admit he hasn’t been to as many as he thought he’d be going to), but Harry can’t figure out Perrie’s intentions. He really did like her because she doesn’t flirt with him. And she’s cool. But if she’s thinking they could go together—

“I’ve heard rumors that a certain French boy will be there,” Perrie mutters to Harry, knocking him with her elbow.  
Harry blushes at her words. “Do you have a thing for elbowing me? It’s not pleasant.”

Perrie laughs. “Maybe. Really though. Party? You can bring your friend Niall if you want.”

Harry nods, relieved (and maybe excited). “Yeah. For sure.”

\----------------------------------------

“Zayn, do these jeans make my arse look big?”

Zayn tears his eyes away from the trashy teenage tabloid in his hands (okay, it’s Louis’s trashy teenage tabloid, but that’s beside the point) to objectively admire his friend/flatmate’s bum. He only looks for a second before meeting Louis’s eyes in the mirror.

“You do realize that your arse is always big, right?”

Louis smiles widely. “Okay, but it looks amazing, right?”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “And people say I’m vain.”

The comment doesn’t sit well with Louis, so he marches to the bed and flops down on it, aiming to land somewhere around Zayn’s head. “C’mon, Zayn. This is important. There might be hot guys at this party tonight. I need to look good. I haven’t pulled anyone since the beginning of the semester.”

“Louis.” Zayn’s voice sounds muffled, so Louis shifts a bit to give his friend some air. “You haven’t pulled anyone because you’ve been pining after the ‘really fit, curly haired boy’ in that French 101 class. I don’t think you need to reassert your sexual prowess tonight or anything.”

Louis looks scandalized. “Zayn! Harry is my pupil. I could never—”

“Oh, shove it. You’re not a real teacher. Just make a move already.”

It’s silent for a minute before Louis speaks up. “Actually I was sort of hoping he’d be at the party.”

Zayn grins at Louis wickedly. “Well then I think it’s fair to say that these jeans make your arse look so good, straight men will want you.”

“Will it work on unsuspecting freshmen, though?” Louis waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Zayn snorts.

“Yeah I think so.”

\----------------------------------------

Niall is trying to focus on the pretty brunette who’s been fluttering her eyes at him for the past ten minutes. Really. He’s making a good effort. But Harry’s despair is so thick Niall can’t even see anything else. A party isn’t supposed to be this depressing.

He excuses himself from the girl (Holly?) and pulls Harry’s hand in order to lead him toward the kitchen. Harry doesn’t expect this, apparently, because he falls from his perch on the arm of the couch like a bird with a broken wing falls from the sky. He hasn’t even had one beer yet.

Niall waits for Harry to stand up and brush himself off before dragging Harry along again. When they get to the kitchen, Niall presses a cup of something into Harry’s hand, saying, “Get drunk. Stop moping. Dance with someone or something.”

Harry pouts. “I just thought he’d be here.”

Niall shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t let your expectations ruin your night, Harry. Don’t let them ruin mine, either,” he says, slapping Harry’s cheek lightly for good measure. “If I don’t get _at least_ a hot make out session tonight because of you, I’ll paste naked pictures of Caroline Flack all over everything you own.”

The expression on Harry’s face is one of mild horror and disgust. Niall thinks his point has been made, so he salutes his friend and wanders back to the other room. Maybe he can find the girl with the twitchy eyes again. 

\----------------------------------------

Zayn, Liam and Louis all show up to the party about two hours late. It’s entirely Louis’s fault. He’s okay with it. It’s Liam who’s having the aneurysm. Louis signals silently to Zayn to let him know that his first task is to take Liam to the kitchen and get him some alcohol. They can’t have Liam be the wet blanket all night. Zayn stares at Louis with squinty eyes as if Louis is speaking in Chinese or something. Louis rolls his eyes and leaves the boyfriends to it.

They’ll probably be all over each other in about fifteen minutes anyway. No one needs to see that, least of all Louis.  
Louis is in search of alcohol and dancing, and if he’s subtly checking the room for a curly haired freshman, no one needs to know. He finds a beer (which, meh) and what looks like a makeshift dance floor that is really a mass of drunks sweating on each other. There is no way Louis has imbibed nearly enough alcohol for that just yet, so he sets out to explore the house a bit. 

It looks as if someone had put quite a bit of effort into decorating the house for Christmas. Louis hopes it was specifically for the party, not the actual holiday, because a lot of the decorations are now on the floor or are swinging precariously from where they had been taped up. 

Taking a sip of his beer, Louis pauses in the middle of the room to look around, unsure of what to do at this point. He’s admiring a mangled wreath hanging from above a mantelpiece when something warm and large collides with his side. 

“ _Aïe_!” Louis stumbles, but manages barely to catch himself and somehow not spill any beer on himself. Some may have gotten on the carpet, but that’s not really relevant to him. 

He turns to cuss out whoever dared to run into him (most likely in French, because he’s upset and because it flusters people), but cuts himself off as he watches a mess of limbs untangle themselves from where they lay on the floor. 

Harry stands after about five minutes. (Everything Harry does is slow. Louis knows this; he’s constantly endeared by it.) When Harry finally looks at Louis, who has his eyebrows raised, the boy looks shocked. 

“Oh my—I’m so sorry. _De_ — _désolé_. _Désolé_.” Harry is patting Louis on the shoulder, then on the face, presumably to placate him. Louis thinks Harry must be drunk.

“Are you drunk, Harry?”

Harry looks like a child who’s been scolded for tracking dirt in the house. He nods solemnly. Louis shakes his head and laughs. Who even is this kid?

“You’re so pretty, Lou,” Harry drops out of nowhere. It makes Louis’s laugh stick in his throat. He swallows and feels his throat tighten up. Are his hands shaking? Shit.

Louis laughs nervously. “ _Merci_.” He doesn’t know what else to say, so he tries to look at anything but Harry. Inevitably, his eyes are drawn back toward the boy. His face is magnetic. 

Harry is staring at the ceiling with rapt attention now, apparently having already forgotten about Louis. 

“What are you looking at, Harry?” 

Harry meets his gaze and smiles dopily. “How do you say ‘mistletoe’ in French?”

Louis furrows his brow and looks up to the ceiling, trying to locate whatever had grabbed Harry’s attention. He spots the green sprig dangling just above their heads almost immediately. Louis can feel it in his chest when his heart misses a bit. His hands are definitely sweating now. Blindly, he sets his beer down, not wanting to drop it because of clammy hands.

“ _Gui_ ,” he answers weakly. “ _Gui_ is mistletoe.”

A warm, slightly calloused hand brushes Louis’s jaw, guiding his focus back to the boy in front of him. Harry’s face is flushed and his curls are askew, but he looks as lovely as ever. Louis can’t look away, and some part of him knows what’s coming. He’s not sure he’s ready to believe it quite yet, though.

Before he’s ready, Harry’s lips are on his. They’re soft and surprisingly gentle for a drunken kiss under the mistletoe. It does things to Louis, like make his lips tingle and his stomach flop. It only lasts a few seconds before Louis is slipping his fingers into Harry’s curls and pushing up on his toes just to get closer. 

Louis takes control of the kiss, swiping his tongue across Harry’s closed mouth and biting Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth when Harry gasps. Louis breaks for just a second in order to locate the nearest couch. He pushes Harry over to it and straddles his lap.

Maybe he should feel guilty for molesting the mouth of one of his students, but he’s waited months for this. Louis tugs on Harry’s hair gently so that he can angle Harry’s lips up to him and Harry groans. Their lips meet again, both surging forward for contact. Louis can feel Harry’s hands enveloping his waist, and it makes his toes curl.

Louis is practically wiggling in Harry’s lap, knowing that if they go much farther it’s going to start getting indecent, even for where they are. Thankfully (not) they are interrupted by a loud, Irish accent, practically yelling in Louis’s ear.

“Harry, is that you?”

Louis detaches himself from Harry’s face (Harry whimpers) and glares at the blonde boy staring at them with a shit eating grin on his face. He recognizes this as Harry’s friend from the diner. Louis thinks if this is going to be a habit of his—interrupting their heated moments—Louis is not going to get along with Harry’s friend.

“Harry’s unavailable at the moment. Come back later.”

The fiend cackles at his answer. “Suits me just fine.”

Louis doesn’t even wait for the boy to leave before turning back to Harry. His shoulders slump though when he sees that Harry has somehow managed to pass out in the few seconds Louis was distracted. Louis considers ditching, but looking at that face compels him to stay instead. He plants a kiss on Harry’s cheek. Then he decides to dot more kisses all over the boy’s face.

Harry wakes up giggling, for heaven’s sake, and gently pushing at Louis. “Stop, stop.” The boy opens his eyes after a second, but they look unfocused. His gaze settles somewhere around Louis’s face. “Hiiiii, Louis.”

“Hey there.”

“Have I told you that you’re pretty?”

Louis smiles and brushes a stray curl out of Harry’s face. “I don’t think you have yet, actually.”

“Oh. Well, you’re like, really pretty. Can I kiss you?”

“ _Oui_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't speak French and I'm not British. If any of that was apparent, I'm sorry.
> 
> Anyway. I hope you liked it! :D
> 
> [My tumblr](http://angels-are-mischiefs.tumblr.com/)


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